The winds howl, an echo across the crumbling rocks. The whispers of ancient prophets laced within folds of history, dilute a reality that speaks not of glory, but emptiness.
Here, shadows of decrepit columns and fragmented texts unravel stories of human frailties. It's not the gods that falter or the cast sky that trembles, but the unyielding obsession with truth. It’s the never-ending march through corridors of your own making.
People gather still; not for enlightenment, but habit, like moths circling dimming flame. The answers were written upon sands that shift relentlessly — so much for the oracle, so much for the destined paths. Are paths not misguided turns?
Decode this eternal riddle with no end: "Amid what leads between gray sharp peaks and whispering sands lurks the question, yet what answer lies buried there?"
Conjecture it as whispers of rocks …
The sun will rise the same, casting shadows on hollowed hopes. Mirrors where visions once stood, now reflect brittle truths untouched by brilliancy.